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Jamaica, Mon

I recently went to Jamaica for four days with two of my lady friends. We left our husbands and kids at home, and ventured out on a trip I was excited about. I don’t think I have been anywhere out of the state or country without my husband or a child in over 12 years. This was an adventure, even if we brought our Xanax, smart phones and bathroom spray.

We loved being able to attempt sleeping late, which when you have kids, is 8:30 am. We enjoyed getting ready for a late dinner at 7:30 pm when normally, at home, kids are getting ready for bed and husbands are getting ready for a couch snooze before bed. We dressed up, we drank pink, frilly, girly drinks, we sat on the beach in bikini tops we would never wear to our neighborhood pool and we talked to people only when we really felt like it.

One night, when we went back to the same piano bar we’d been at the night before, the three of us walked in, two blondes and a brunette, feeling tanned, perfumed and pretty. As we walked through the door, our hair swayed, almost in slow motion, our purses glided along with our bodies and it felt like everyone was watching us.

“Ahhh,” said the piano player in his thick, Jamaican accent, “here they come mon, Charlie’s Angels.”

The three of us a giggled a bit, half embarrassed, half cocky, and walked over to a table. As we were sitting down, a woman who sat at table close by with other attractive, young men and young women, said to one of her friends, “Who the hell are Charlie’s Angels?”

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